


Hoping your crystal eyes will appear

by verdantspace



Category: Digimon - All Media Types, Digimon Adventure, Digimon Adventure tri.
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-06 15:26:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8758429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verdantspace/pseuds/verdantspace
Summary: He falls to earth and steals my soul.
  Taichi/Yamato, AU. Footballer!Taichi and Grimreaper!Yamato.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hey so I’m back with another story! I’ve been really distracted with ainana fandom that some Taiyama fics remain unfinished in my draft...I’m really sorry. So I decided to remedy that with this little piece ;)
> 
> I had always wanted to write that ‘suddenly living together under unforeseeable circumstances’ trope, so I decided to write it. With a little twist. I stole this idea from a very old manga called Salad Days, where one of the characters is a grim reaper and well, Yamato is a gloomy bastard so I assigned that role to him. Not gonna give too much away but this is part one of a two-part story. I’ve started writing the second part but I have a shit ton of work right now so maybe I’ll post it later next week. Please bear with me! :”“))
> 
> There’s an abundance of humor in this (I hope it’s funny for you ha) because I’m in the mood to write something happy. Hope you like it!
> 
> Title and lyrics taken from Itou Kanako’s beautiful song, Crystalline. And before you ask, yes, I played DMMd and I’m in love with the OST.
> 
> Cry with me on twitter: [@verdantspace](https://twitter.com/verdantspace)

_“Our love crystalline freeze this frame for me_

_Even if fate shall wait in the way, we belong.”_

—Itou Kanako, _Crytalline_

 

Taichi wakes up that hoping the occurrence of last night was merely a very elaborate nightmare. He opens his eyes deliberately slowly, counting to five in his head, and almost sighs in relief if not for the sign of movement catching his peripheral vision. He turns, and has to suppress a very unmanly squeak when he sees _him,_ relaxed and reclined on Taichi’s old desk chair. His eyes look hot and cold at the same time, strangely focused at this hour of the morning, a stunning shade of blue Taichi has never seen before. He’s a vision, for sure, but once he opens his mouth, Taichi dreads.

“You awake?” he says, crossing legs that seem to go on for miles, and it takes Taichi more than five seconds to process that he’s asking a question.

The blond waits patiently, though, head tilted slightly to the side, so Taichi takes his time. He rolls his muscles—still sore from yesterday’s gruelling practice—and stretches his arms. Taichi goes to bed shirtless, and he knows that he’s displaying his muscles, wrapped around tight, tan flesh. He’s well aware of how good he looks. Truly, he doesn’t know why he’s doing this—maybe he’s fishing for a reaction, a scandalized gasp, dilated pupils, _anything,_ but the blond just sits there watching, nothing reflected in his eyes but that infuriating calm. It’s almost inhumane.

Well, if Taichi were to trust his words, he wasn’t human, anyway.

After letting a contented sigh escape his lips as his sore muscles loosened, Taichi meets the blond’s gaze head on and murmurs, “Yeah, obviously I’m awake. Got early practice today.”

Yet before he could get out of bed to get ready, the blond promptly rises to his full height, clasping his hands together.

“Good, I’m coming with you.”

“Huh?” Taichi winces at the loudness of his own voice. _It’s too early for this,_ he mourns, “what business do you have with my team?”

“Not your team,” the blond answers, “I need to always be beside you. Gotta be there to take your soul,” he moves towards the door like their discussion is over, long grey coat trailing after him dramatically.

Taichi is still gaping when the blond reaches the door, looking at the brunette one more time.

“I got breakfast prepared. It’s 05.30, so don’t dawdle around or you’ll be late.”

The click of the door reverberated through his room and Taichi collapses to his bed, resigned and feeling inexplicably tired.

 

***

 

Despite his very weird morning, nothing out of the ordinary had happened during training, not counting the thorough begging Taichi had submitted himself to. Coaxing his coach to allow a particular blond to sit through the whole training regime had not been easy, but he’d managed. The blond looks out of place, clean and cold amidst the bustle of sweaty, training-weary men. Taichi sees some of his teammates stealing glances at his long legs and clear, almost translucent skin, feeling an odd sense of satisfaction when said blond only has eyes for _him,_ steely blue gaze trailing Taichi’s every movement.

Never to be unnerved, Taichi answers his inquiring gaze by being ferocious on the field. The title of ace striker is not just for show, Taichi proves, when he executes a very well timed pass that eventually leads to a goal. By the time he scores his fifth goal that morning alone, his coach and teammates are looking at him with something akin to worshipful, while the blond barely reacts—only a faint quirk of his lips that somehow feels very rewarding.

As a result of that his jersey is drenched, and Taichi feels pity for their manager when he puts it in the washing basket. He’s just stepping inside the communal shower when he’s bombarded with questions.

“Taichi, who’s that?”

“Where’d you find that gorgeous blond...”

“...a date?...”

“You slept with him?”

“...not necessary to bring him here...”

“...he’s rather quiet, isn’t he?”

“Is he a doll? An angel?”

The last one makes Taichi jerk in surprise. An angel, huh? Not necessarily true, but maybe not too far off the mark either, he thinks.

“It’s nothing fancy, guys,” he settles for indifference, waving his hand dismissively, “just someone I found, and now I’m kind of stuck with him. That’s all I can tell.”

Most of his teammates look quite satisfied with that, dispersing around Taichi with lecherous grins on their faces and some exclamations of _lucky bastard_ that Taichi chooses to ignore. Most of them, anyway, Taichi realizes as he comes face to face with Daisuke Motomiya, a junior of his who claims to be Taichi’s biggest fan when in truth he’s a general annoyance with an unsettling talent of following Taichi around. He’s taken Daisuke under his wing, anyway, maybe because he sees too much of himself in Daisuke, and the younger man has an uncanny ability of thinking in the same wavelength as him. Which means they’re good at reading each other, both on the field and in everyday situations.

Daisuke’s not buying Taichi’s story, and it shows on his face.

With a resigned sigh, Taichi beckons Daisuke closer and they move to a relatively private part of the showers, quietly lathering soap on their bodies before Daisuke finally breaks the silence.

“So who’s he?”

Such a simple question that should have a simple answer, but Taichi’s life has never been simple.

“If I told you he was a grim reaper, would you believe me?” he shoots back bluntly.

Daisuke stops his movement and looks incredulously at Taichi. His shock only lasts for a moment, however, and he attempts to look at Taichi in the eyes again, which truthfully feels more than awkward because they’re currently naked and wet.

Daisuke’s eyes are little slits as he studies Taichi’s face. The older man tries hard to pay him no mind, washing soapy suds from his skin under Daisuke’s unwavering attention. It’s taken him about ten minutes to arrive to a conclusion.

Finally beginning to wash up himself, Daisuke shrugs and says, “Well, you’ve never lied to me before. So I’m gonna trust you.”

At that, Taichi chuckles. Daisuke’s bouts of hero worship used to unnerve him, but now it only amuses him.

“Stop that, Motomiya,” he teases, “you’re making me blush.”

“ _Your blond_ is making me blush,” Daisuke counters, “A grim reaper, you say? More like a supermodel, if you ask me. Hell, one look at him and Ken’s stupid competitive streak would rear its ugly head.”

Ken Ichijouji is Daisuke’s very pretty, very much a professional model boyfriend, who apparently has issues about not being the prettiest person in the room. Taichi imagines the blond standing next to Ken and his dick twitches a little. The resulting image is very lovely, indeed. Not the time and place to jack off, though, and Taichi curses his luck as he stands under the cold stream of water.

He sighs for the umpteenth time that day and turns off the shower, feeling refreshed but not any less tired.

“I’m going out, Daisuke,” he announces, gathering his stuff and leaving Daisuke to sputter,  _Taichi, I’m not done yet wait for me!_

Taichi snickers and proceeds to leave him, anyway. That’s what you get for being a nosy little shit.

He dresses languidly, procrastinating, knowing full well that the blond will be waiting for him. And wait for him he does, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, very pointedly ignoring one of Taichi’s teammates’—some guy called Sugimura—advances. Taichi feels his stomach drop at the way he crowds the blond, a feeling he doesn’t dare to give a name yet building inside of him.

“Hey!” he calls out, and realizes that he doesn’t know his name yet, simply referring to him as _the blond_ in his head. Well, that’s a topic to cover.

Hearing Taichi’s voice, the blond reacts immediately, and if he was ignoring Sugimura before, he doesn’t even register his existence now. He leaves Sugimura—who is in the middle of complimenting his eyes—without even a glance backwards, walking towards Taichi like his world has narrowed down to the brunette’s existence.

Taichi shoots a smug look at Sugimura and circles his hand around the blond’s arm, a pointed gesture. “Let’s go,” he says, and the blond follows.

 

***

 

“What’s your name?” Taichi finally asks the blond, licking at his soft cream. It’s bad to eat sweet treats right after practice, but he always passes through a convenience store on his way home from the stadium, so he thought why the hell not. The blond had looked at him with funny eyes when Taichi offered a cone to him, like it was his first time to see something as strange as this.

His eyes had sparkled when he tried the treat for the first time, though, so all is good. Who in the world wouldn’t love soft cream, anyway?

Funny thing is, he also didn’t know that he could actually eat the cone, which led to further theories.

“You a prince from a faraway land of some sort?” Taichi inquires further, casually disregarding his own question.

Still busy nibbling at the now soft cone—Taichi is most definitely not looking at those soft, pink lips—the blond answers methodically. “I don’t have a name, and no. I’m not a prince.”

That doesn’t answer anything, to be quite honest.

“Um... How could someone not have a name?”

The blond levels his gaze at him, and his eyes are dead serious. “I just don’t. I never needed one before.”

The universe is conspiring to make Taichi’s life miserable, and its endeavor comes in a pretty, blond package. What an irony, seeing as pretty blonds are his greatest weakness. He squeezes his eyes shut until white spots appear behind them and when he opens them again, the blond is looking at him.

“Thank you,” he says.

“Huh?”

“For the treat,” a beat, “whatever that was.”

Taichi licks his lips. “It’s called soft cream. You can get it on convenience stores for ¥150. I can take you anytime, if you’d like.”

He isn’t sure if he’s propositioning the blond, and cringes in horror when he realizes that if that was true, then he just asked him out by offering convenience store dates with soft creams. Taichi is no casanova, but he has enough tact to know what a fucking lame move that is. He’s one of Japan’s best strikers for God’s sake, he should have more class than this.

Yet the blond either doesn’t care or doesn’t know about the art of dating, because he only nods and trudges along, before turning to Taichi after a few steps to beckon him to lead the way.

Which means the blond is going to follow him anywhere.

“You’re following me again?” He blurts out unceremoniously, his voice decidedly less confrontational than expected. The training menu has drained him considerably, so he can’t muster up the proper annoyance to pull off sounding even remotely offended.

The blond turns on his heels and quirks his lips. It’s a funny feeling to want to kiss and punch a smirk off of someone’s face at the same time, Taichi ponders.

“Of course, silly. Your soul is mine.”

Taichi wants to crack up a creepy overly attached boyfriend joke, but swallows his tongue when he realizes that the context of the blond’s statement could be _literal_ and that’s not funny _at all_. As the blond continues to walk in front of him, Taichi takes what’s offered and feeds his eyes on those swaying, pretty hips, while still feeling very much frustrated, more than a little confused, and maybe kind of scared. Maybe.

His life is so hard.

 

***

 

The following days aren’t as bad as Taichi had thought it would be. The blond stays at his home, gracing his tiny bachelor apartment with the presence of one more person. He leaves trails of his presence here and there—an additional set of silverware, a new toothbrush set beside Taichi’s, black underwear strewn about, a stack of books (Revelation Space, The Unwritten, Nightfall, The Left Hand of Darkness and what the hell is Babel-17?) on his coffee table, and delicious, warm breakfast served for him at the table every morning—and Taichi almost never comes home to an empty room anymore.

Most often, he’d find him on the kitchen table, head bent and immersed in a silly looking book, Taichi’s stereo playing a slow rock tune that he seems to favor. _Good evening,_ he’d say, eyes blue as the ocean and hair glowing almost eerily, waxen strands catching light from the tiny reading lamp he’d been using. A piece of heaven on Taichi’s poorly decorated kitchen.

“Angel,” Taichi blurts out before he can stop himself.

“Excuse me?” The blond inquires, lips parted in confusion and it’s all Taichi can do not to stride over and claim them with his own.

Trying hard to cover his embarrassing slip up, Taichi blabbers on, “It’s a nickname. For you. I just came up with it. Yeah, it’s a nickname. It’s gonna be what I call you from now on.”

“Angel?”

So he heard him. “Yes. It’s very fitting, don’t you think?”

The blond—Angel—shrugs, “Do as you like.”

Taichi smiles, feeling strangely victorious.

 

***

 

Through time, Taichi learns a lot about Angel. He bathes, eats, and sleeps by choice, because he claims that he doesn’t need them like humans do. He just likes doing it because it lends a feeling of normalcy, and he needs to blend in as much as possible so he wouldn’t risk exposure of his fellow grim reapers.

Considering how he had told Taichi straight up that he was going to take his soul, Taichi kind of doubts his methods of staying discreet.

He doesn’t have doubts about not needing to bath part, though, because Taichi’s air conditioner had broken one day, and while Taichi had marinated in his own sweat and grime, Angel had stayed cool as a cucumber—pale skin warm and dry, blond hair still fluffy and flawless and yep, he isn’t fucking _human_ —without needing to shower even once. Taichi had been too frustrated by the heat to get properly freaked out by that first sign of inhumanity.

He also has a penchant for cooking and he’s ridiculously good and creative, which is both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because no more crappy convenience store meals for Taichi, and a curse because he’d find himself being Angel’s designated experimental bunny all too often; the blond forcing spoonfuls of questionable concoction down Taichi’s throat. Taichi almost never refuses, part of it because Angel sulks like a pro when he doesn’t get what he wants, and part of it—the more dominant part—because Angel is a grim reaper and he can take Taichi’s _soul_ away at any given time. Any grown man wouldn’t want to piss that kind of guy off.

He blurts out his worries one day, staring at the blond’s latest endeavor—a bubbling pot of stew, red in color and thick in consistency—and feeling horror sink in.

“Are you gonna take my soul if I refuse to eat?”

The blond pauses stirring, staring at Taichi like he has grown a second head. He sighs and says, “No, Taichi. There’s a designated time for me to take your soul, and I stick to that schedule. I can’t do it based on a whim; as much as I’m tempted to if you keep being a whiny little shit.”

Angel has also developed a habit of cursing, which amuses Taichi to no end.

“Now stop being a coward and open up.”

He does so, hesitantly, purposefully holding his breath to avoid smelling. When the broth enters his mouth, though, his eyes light up in delight because it’s warm and savory and so freaking _tasty_ he wants to cry a little bit. He rolls it around in his mouth and finally swallows with a sigh of contentment. His pleasure must be obvious because Angel levels him with a gaze, part smug and part satisfaction, that Taichi returns with a grin.

“What’s...?”

“Faki soupa,” the blond answers before Taichi finishes, “made from lentils, mainly, but I also added olive oil, tomato paste, onions, parsley, and some carrots because I know you hate them boiled. Gotta find new ways to make you eat carrots. They’re good for the eyes, apparently.”

Taichi digests that last part and almost laughs out loud because as much as Angel loves cooking, he also loves nutrition facts and balancing meals, which results in him experimenting with healthy ingredients that sometimes end up tasting very disgusting. Most of the time, though, it turns out fantastic, and Taichi still revels in the way his teammates had glared at him in envy that one time Angel had made his special frosted fruit gelatin for the whole team.

It had been so delicious that Taichi had willingly sat through Angel’s hour-long speech about the benefits of fruit gelatin for an athlete, because it contains natural sugar for energy and is light enough to consume before a game that it wouldn’t feel hard on the stomach.

“You’re so good to me,” he says playfully, grinning even wider at the way a blush creeps up Angel’s neck. God, he’s delectable.

“Shut up,” Angel counters, putting the heat off the pot and averting Taichi’s gaze, “you don’t have much time, so I’m just helping you lead a fulfilling life.”

Taichi ignores his comment because nothing can burst off his bubble of happiness.

 

***

 

It’s scary how human adapts to their living conditions, Taichi thinks. He’s gotten so used to the idea of living with a grim reaper—well, a grim reaper who cooks for him and uses up his shampoo, but that’s beside the point—that even Angel’s weird little quirks doesn’t freak him out anymore.

He realizes this when one night, Angel unexpectedly snuggles up next to Taichi, resulting in a still bleary Taichi to almost sock his teeth off. Angel is more than a little annoyed, telling him to stop being a Neanderthal and to please scoot to the left a little bit. Taichi does so willingly, but after they have settled on his queen sized bed, he can’t help but to ask if something is bothering him.

Angel is quiet for a moment, but eventually answers, “Big brother came to me.”

At Taichi’s silence, he adds, “He’s like, the leader of all grim reapers. He told me that I’m doing a good job, but reminded me not to get too immersed. Humans are our job, we have a professional conduct to uphold, _et cetera, et cetera_. Don’t tell this to anyone, but I just...I don’t like it when he visits.”

Taichi doesn’t know who the hell he could have told about this, anyway.

“He’s gone now, right?”

The blond nods, timidly.

“Then you’re okay.”

It feels weird, reassuring someone without being able to touch them, because Taichi’s mother had taught him that a touch speaks more than words can, and Taichi has never been a very good speaker.

He reluctantly puts his hand on a pale shoulder, rubbing gently and hoping he can convey his message. Angel goes rigid for a moment before relaxing, his body going lax with contentment, tense muscles loosening. Taichi watches in amazement at the way his spine curves as he snuggles further into the sheets, back arching and unknowingly breaching Taichi’s space, and they’re much closer than they have ever been.

He curls his hands into fists, sets a resolve to keep his hands to himself, and forces his brain to quiet down to finally fall asleep.

When they wake up, Angel is more or less pressed to Taichi’s side with his head cradled by Taichi’s left shoulder. He’s already awake, his eyes pools of blue and his skin sleep-warm and soft, and he looks so _serene_ that Taichi’s mind—still stupid  with remnants of sleep—decides that it’s a great idea to gather that body into his arms. Angel yelps, but he’s still weak and his muscles don’t work as they should so instead of pushing him away, he melts further into Taichi’s embrace. It’s quiet for a moment, the space between them filled with soft sheets and softer breaths, and Taichi thinks _this is heaven_.

“Last night I’ve had the best sleep,” he suddenly says, voice hoarse from disuse, “ever since I came down here.”

Taichi hums his acknowledgement. “Good for you.”

“Is this something humans do? Sleeping together to help their slumber?”

Taichi can’t help but to marvel at the way his mind works—naive as a child, but critical as an analyst. It’s like a breath of fresh air, and Taichi can’t get enough of him.

“Kind of, yeah. It’s reassuring to have someone next to you as you sleep,” he explains, “because some of us are afraid of the dark. Some of us are afraid of never waking up. Some of us just like to listen to someone’s breathing next to them. It varies, really.”

Angel makes a noise of acknowledgement and Taichi buries his face on golden blond strands, inhaling the scent of his own shampoo and something sweeter underneath. He wants to stay like this all day, but he’d promised Daisuke to take him shopping. Little bastard still doesn’t understand the difference between proper football shoes and running sneakers. Taichi should disown him.

“Wanna get up? We—well, _I—_ need to shower.”

Angel lets out a huff, like he finds the idea of untangling himself from Taichi very offensive. Taichi stifles a smile and pets his head, tunnels his fingers through soft strands and very gently, tilts Angel’s head up so their eyes lock.

He looks handsome as usual, the shock of electric blue eyes tampered by exhaustion—he had been organizing his increasing pile of books since yesterday—and contentment. There’s a noticeable pink blush on his sleep wrinkled cheeks, and Taichi gets a very irresistible urge to kiss him.

He doesn’t, though, only flicks him on the forehead and laughs maniacally as Angel races him to the bathroom, hell-bent on revenge.


End file.
